Must be the Heat


A crown of
flowers
spun with care
on a summer’s day
wound round
in golden hair.
They jump
and twirl
like nymphs
casting a spell.
Crowd the streets
hang from trees,
all to capture
us:
flowers for bees.
In groups
they darkly whisper
about their latest
feat—
the enamor
of each
and every
man on feet.
The meadows stripped
gardens ripped
fallen petals
on display:
the girls
take
with a sweet innocent
face.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem